


the lukewarm

by tnevmucric



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Dark Will Graham, Episode Fix-It: s02e13 Mizumono, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18369395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: there's power in his pocket and ships in his sea





	the lukewarm

He accepts from the age of 34 that there are some things which will never escape him; his name is Will Graham, he is in Baltimore, Maryland, and his skills include losing himself in the heavily induced coma of infatuation that danger brings. It is 6:32 AM. His heart gargles bile in his stomach, ready for the spit and rinse.

Hannibal Lecter is not a quiet Sunday morning hidden within two storeys, four walls and a herb garden that makes the _Giardino Delle Erbe_ wilt in shame. He is Death on two legs, he takes away the gentle breeze, and he kisses Will like it's the only thing that matters.

 _I'm here_ , Hannibal's kiss says.

 _Now I'm there_ , Will's brain replies, thriving in the picturesque world Hannibal paints; alleys of Venice, cathedrals of Rome– a preference for blood that will not be sated by an every-now-and-then surge.

He sees, he accepts, he writhes as Hannibal thrusts into him; _velocemente, velocemente,_ his fingers scribe into the cannibals biceps, _our time is weaning._

When he comes, gasping sharply into Hannibal's neck, Will realises that maybe it doesn't have to.

 

* * *

 

 

Fates arrow, when expected, travels slow.

"A part of me hoped you'd just apologise and we'd kiss and make up", Jack doesn't look up from the file, fingers pinching the corner as a reminder. Will's posture is slouched against the wall, neck bared and eyes open to the ceiling.

"Life is rarely so easy."

"And yet here we are."

"Here _you_ are", Will corrects, finally meeting his gaze. "You're tired, Jack. When was the last time you slept?"

"It feels like years ago. Maybe it was."

"Who do you mourn tonight?"

"Myself", he answers honestly. "Wherever I died, myself. I think he died young. I think something went awry and it was hard to cover things up."

"You died the day Miriam Lass went missing", Will points out. "You died again the day I did. You know that feeling you get, that churning in your stomach that you get when you impulsively tell people all the good you've done in your life to hide all of the bad?"

"Yes."

"How often do you tell yourself about the good you've done, Jack?"

"Agent Crawford?"

The room brightens considerably and Jack feels the file bend. Glancing up, he greets the officer at his door.

"What is it?"

"Freddie Lounds was here to see you, Sir. She dropped this off, said she owed you one."

"She still here?"

"No, Sir. Left rather abruptly."

"Give it to me."

The officer crosses the room and sets the plain envelope in his outstretched hand, leaving with a short nod and grim expression. Jack supposes it comes with the job, but he knows better than to disregard the telltale sign of security's letter-opening skills.

It's a single photo on high-gloss paper, newly printed and taken from across a street. It's nighttime and the only source of light is a street lamp; if Jack knew anything about art, he thinks he'd call it worthy of a gallery– he finds he doesn't want to admit to the phantom eyes of an empath on his shoulder, doesn't want to read into something he wants to believe he understands.

Hannibal Lecter's hand splays on Will Graham's back: low, guiding and intimate.

Jack sees it, and he can't unsee it.

 

* * *

 

 

If Jack were a simpler man, he'd enjoy the strange discomfort of Wolf Trap that Will basks in. The trees warn passerby and threaten thievery to those who look too closely– Will is sitting at the steps when he pulls up, and for an unsettling moment they stare at each other. The tint of Jack's windscreen does little to lessen the chill in Will's eyes: frozen and fear-mongering.

Maleficent, Jack could call them, and he's sure it would rile a smile from Dr. Lecter if he did.

"Camus was right", Will says once Jack finds the willpower to leave the car. The dogs mill around his legs, sniffing interest at the newcomer before retreating back to the field. "Judgement comes each day– but is the reason you judge so quickly out of fear? Have you taken the time to judge yourself yet, Jack?"

"I didn't come here to wax poetic, Will."

"Humor me."

Too brash and far too telling for his liking, Jack tosses the open envelope at Will's feet, watching the younger man lean down to take it. An unsettling nausea doesn't lessen in him as Will looks at the picture: lacking in all areas of expression.

"Are you going to betray me, Will?" The sun casts a burnt light over the lense of his glasses. Even if Jack wanted to, Will's gaze was something unavailable. His thumb folds the corner of the photograph.

"Freddie?"

"Who else?"

"I'm doing what you wanted. You wanted a lure– wanted to drag him in. I'm doing what you want."

"When have you ever done what I wanted?!", Jack snaps. "I'll ask you again- _should I expect betrayal?_ "

"You say it like we're playing battleship and I got you to sit by the window."

"Graham-"

"We're going to save lives", Will interrupts. "That's what this has always been about. No matter _what_ we are going to save lives. Do you agree?"

"You'll forgive me if the statement is a little obtuse for my liking." Will tilts his head in consideration.

"When you fell in love with Bella, did you then go to work each day and think: _I am saving her life. I am saving her life and everyone else's._ "

"His love will bring you death."

"I know." One of the dogs sits itself beside Will and he reaches out to scratch her head. "And it will bring life."

Silence shrouds Virginia and thickens the confession, sinking it into Jack's open pores and stitching that comfortable grim line over his mouth.

"You came here to beg", Will speaks gently, as if he were reprimanding a child. "Maybe bargain for your life– my honesty won't cease with you, Jack. If you really wanted to arrest me, stop all of this from happening, you wouldn't have left your recorder in the car. You would have turned it on and put it in your pocket, and I would have let you. I would have said these words."

Without so much as a whistle, the pack of dogs file into the unkempt house as Will stands, brushing the dirt from his pants and clutching the photo. Jack's tongue refuses to work.

"Has he caught you, Will?"

The look he recieves is a fleeting clarity, an appraisal of Jack's character and a threat all at once. What were once doe eyes now remind Jack of the all-seeing gaze gargoyles upkeep. Will turns to leave, an uncharacteristic surety on his face.

"Will I see you at dinner, Jack?"

Jack thinks he has just met God and stumbled, childishly, over his meticulous timeline. For a moment, he sees the future.

He leaves before the trees can force him back.

 

* * *

 

 

The car is quiet and warm, whispers of sleep threatening to lull Will into security. Hannibal hadn't said much when he slid into the passengers seat, which wasn't out of the ordinary in itself, but he found himself wanting to lean into the doctor's space– find comfort in a touch.

"Jack came to see me", he says, if only to fill the silence. "Freddie's been watching your house."

"I'm aware", Hannibal doesn't look at him. "Her scent is... obnoxious."

"That's one word for it. Why do you let her?"

"You spared her life. There's meaning in what you do, to which I don't wish to tamper with. I owe you that respect." Will frowns, more awake than before.

"We've talked about this, you don't owe me anything."

"Perhaps my conscience has caught up to me then, after all this time."

He scoffs, not unkindly, and shuffles in the leather seat, choosing to lean his head against the cooler window. Baltimore passes by in blurs of violet and red and he feels calmed by the familiar streets, the familiar route to Hannibal's home.

Familiar sheets, his mind supplies unhelpfully.

"I'm unafraid. Is that strange?"

"Do you feel strange?"

Indulgently, he pinches Hannibal's thigh. "Countering my questions with questions is lazy psychiatry. Counter my statement with your opinion." Hannibal's hand slides from the steering wheel to clasp over Will's, keeping him there.

"To do so may influence your mental state."

"I've never felt clearer headed." Their fingers tangle together. "Please."

Hannibal's gaze consumes the open highway ahead, leaving behind an open wound to be infected and brutally cauterised by the sun tomorrow. His thumb strokes Will's knuckles, both present and distant.

"Your encephalitis twisted the comfort you found in darkness and made you susceptible to the opinions of outer viewers such as Dr. Bloom and Jack Crawford. You became obsessed with the killers you were handed and rightly afraid because of mounting pressure. You are now, as you say, clear headed, and therefore able to analyse what you want and do not want in your role of hunting said killers. Your empathy, when handled right, is the safest place for you to go to hide from yourself, because it is the closest you can be to who you are. You are unafraid because you are now allowed to choose what you want. You're not strange, Will. You feel safe."

"With you", Will recites and Hannibal offers a demure nod.

"With me."

"How does that make you feel?"

"I like my friends regardless of their indulgences."

"What if my indulgence was to use my empathy to double-cross you?"

A smile pinches Hannibal's eyes, the fond curl of it enticing Will closer to his side despite his seatbelt's restraint.

"I almost dare to encourage you."

Will laughs quietly, turning back to the window with a squeeze to Hannibal's hand.

"It's safe to say you don't need to worry", he admits. "About Jack, either. He'll come."

"You're sure?"

"He has remained... relentless. Even after my emancipation."

"His guilt was short."

"Alana resents you."

"Does she?"

"Does that bother you?"

Hannibal smiles again. "No, Will."

"I wonder why."

"Her opinion of my character is not one I uphold."

Will finds it in his tire to be surprised, twisting in his seat again.

"Really?" Hannibal raises an eyebrow.

"Really. I imagine she resents my guidance as your psychiatrist, blames me for not noticing the signs of neurological issues sooner, while also struggling with her attraction towards me as her former mentor and the candidacy of my being the Chesapeake Ripper. I hold highly in her mind- it is only a matter of bitter disappointment."

"You speak of her like a nuisance."

"Don't you view her as such?"

Will sends him a wry smile.

"That was dirty."

"Was it?"

"She's wrong, you were never my psychiatrist", Will reminds. "She's a nuisance to you while I feel... distressed, around her."

"The difference?"

"I can't even care. She sees everything through a rose-tinted lense."

"If only she could hear us now."

"What opinions do you uphold?", Will asks, then. "You never held Alana's, you ridicule Jack's..."

A red light forces Hannibal to look at him,

"Do you wish me to say your name, Will?"

"Maybe", Will admits. "How would that make you feel? Affronted?"

"Pleasantly surprised. I value our relationship, and so I value your opinion. It's only natural. What do you think of that?"

"There are layers between us", Will starts. "There's closeness, familiarity. I often want you near me."

"How unorthodox."

"Maybe", Will smiles, noting Hannibal's tone. "But have I ever been so honest?" His fingers tighten around the other man's suddenly. "I think you could just rip my heart out if you wanted, Dr. Lecter, and yet it will always be here where I seek my comfort. And you will always meet me halfway– that I don't doubt."

"Is that how you see me?"

Hannibal's home comes into view, desperately silent in an overbearing neighbourhood. The lights are rarely all on, encouraging uncoordinated stumbles and picturesque framing.

"It's how I know you. If killers are my comfort, does that make you a killer or the original definition of comfort?" Will thinks Hannibal's home has lungs, long and rotted ones that have inhaled arsonists fire. "You told me about Florence the other night." Hannibal breathes out: Will sees smoke.

"Yes."

"Tell me more about it."

"What would you like to know?"

"Anything you'll tell me."

It is said so softly and genuinely that Hannibal almost finds himself leaning in to catch the words. The car is still and cooling and the doctor stares at their hands.

"The sun shines its brightest before setting", he states slowly. "The sight is unlike any other." Will hums.

"Sunlight", he quotes, and there is an age to his voice. "The most precious gold to be found on earth. Would you ever let someone else cook for you?"

Amusement colours Hannibal briefly and he pulls away, making to leave the car.

"You're quite talkative tonight. Perhaps this is a more apt version of therapy."

"Don't go psychoanalysing me, I've had a trying day", Will sniffs, following Hannibal out to the front door as he unlocks it. "Really, though. I feel like I've never seen you eat outside of something you've made."

"I suppose if I were in the company of a trusted figure, yes. There are few restaurants I see fitting, though."

"Would you let me cook for you?"

"Do you know how to cook?", Hannibal counters and Will let's his coat be taken.

"I suck at it, but it'd be nice. Fresh fish and whatnot. I wouldn't let you show me up in a suit, just so you know."

"How would you prefer I present?"

"Comfortably", Will replies easily, as if he's always had both the answer and the thought. "Even if it is your pyjamas– that'd be a sight, renowned Dr. Lecter in his pyjamas, ready to have what is assuredly a bland meal by his palate but homely nonetheless."

Will's fingers curl at the lapels of Hannibal's jacket when the doctor draws him close, smoothing a familiar hand over his cheek.

"Until then, I believe we should keep our dinners strictly to my kitchen."

Something changes, then. The air shifts and Will becomes pliant, subconsciously trying to catch the warmth of Hannibal's chest and break the distance the man's hands brought.

"You could have anything you want Hannibal. You take anything you want."

 _How sad_ , Hannibal thinks faintly. _For he is an angel._

He reaches between them and touches Will's wrist; the pulse there is frightening and large, erratic in its tempo and playing out to the tune of Wagner.

"Let me take you upstairs", Hannibal says, but it has already been determined by both parties that any other answer than compliance is impossible.

And waking up to Will always proves to be another story.

Warmth flares in tendrils from his body, coaxing and comforting and frighteningly welcome in Hannibal's bed. The shade of his eyelashes forces him to appear more gaunt and his taste still lingers to Hannibal's teeth, something like slivered almonds, something like sticky toffee, threatening to elevate his blood pressure.

He has hunted for the level measure of one Will Graham's adoration, and he would do it again if the man so asked.

He touches Will's shoulder as one would a lover, an insinuatory breach of privacy that saves in the backs of teenagers brains to be brought up in two decades time with the humorous imprint of naiveté and musk. Will leans into it, regardless, and Hannibal continues rolling his thumb against the muscle of his neck. There's bruising there and Will doesn't seem to mind.

"Did you sleep well, Doctor?"

 _Doctor_ , Hannibal repeats. Whether that be intentional tease or a misshapen aim to distance them, he doesn't give it much thought. He moves his hand from Will's shoulder to his forehead, pushing back the outgrown mess in favour of stroking the skin there.

"Quite."

The next few minutes are tender, drifting easily into a midway sleep under the regard of a quiet morning. Too soon for his liking, Hannibal leaves the bed and slides into his robe, feeling the telltale prickling of Will's eyes on his back as he moves to leave.

"Stay in bed, I'll bring up breakfast."

The silence Will gives him is deliberate. At first glance, the Special Agent appears calm and slender; propped up against the headboard with his curls in his eyes and sleep clinging to the pull of his jaw, there is etheriality where he has never looked both so young and so old.

"You would have me stay here for good if it weren't for our obligations."

"Am I so easy to read, Will?"

"Yes", Will replies without pause, and he reaches out. "Breakfast can wait, trust me."

Getting caught on Will's lure is as easy as falling asleep.

"I dreamed you dreamed of me", he whispers in Hannibal's ear as sleep-lethargic hands pull pleasure between them. His sweat smells pliant and unafraid: giving and wholly devoted.

"I did."

"We killed Jack together", Will presses, "Tore out Alana's eyes, strung Freddie Lounds up by her tongue-"

_"Will-"_

"Marry me."

Hannibal's shoulders tighten, fingers barely propping him above the shuddering body beneath him and lips glossed with spit. Debauched, undoubtedly, and completely engrossed in Will Graham.

"When?", Hannibal whispers.

"Tomorrow", Will decides.

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes."

"We'll leave."

"Wherever you want to go."

"Take me to Florence."

"Tomorrow."

"Kiss me", Will demands in a breath. "Keep kissing me."

 _I had paced hungrily until I met you_ , Hannibal itches to confess. _You look desperately tender wrapped in a shirt that isn't yours and awfully easy to snap_ – Hannibal wants to hold Will in his palm and _squeeze_.

"I like it when you look at me", Will's back arches under his touch and his half-lidded eyes struggle to infer meaning. "It's like you see me, just as I am."

That has always been the slow and desperate fall of their relationship: one that has been born out of a man who sees in dreams and wakes to find the emotional impression of his vision still bleeding. While its parts fade from his mind, Hannibal knows he will never forget a word Will Graham has ever said.

"Tell me what the house is like", Will pleads, dragging him back into the moment. "Tell me it's beautiful."

It _is_ beautiful. So Hannibal tells him.

 

* * *

 

 

"To be trampled on, so many times, is debilitating. Few survive."

Jack considers the good doctor for a moment, blade sliding through beetroot and stripping it of its coarser skin. He considers what he believed was good in the first place, what he believed truth and trust came in forms of: Hannibal Lecter is the perfect piece of clay. He never cracks, never dries– where Will mimics patterns of speech and mannerisms, Hannibal opens the doors wide.

Hannibal is the lure.

"We spoke once about each man killing the thing he loves."

"Be it by a bitter look or with a flattering word. The cowards kiss."

"The brave man with a sword."

"Shall I expect a confession of your affections soon, Agent Crawford?", Hannibal's gaze is quick and mollifying– unbearably steady and making Jack's fingers twitch in a Pavlovian response for his gun. He knows what hides behind those eyes, now.

"If I trampled on Will Graham, you macerated him."

"I merely catered damaged goods", Hannibal states. "In his will, is my peace. I can respect when someone says _no_ , Agent Crawford, can you?"

Silence doesn't fill the kitchen like it should but rather the jarring _thrum_ of Hannibal's knife against the cutting board and Jack's heart in sync. Tonight, he finds he can recall the taste of every dish Hannibal has ever served him. He can recount every strangely phrased joke, each graceful step– never tentative, but deliberate. Such is _the lure_. Such is _the psychopath_. Such is _the killer_.

Their attention stirs to the dining room when a small clatter is heard.

"Please, feel free to hang your coat", Dr. Lecter suggests, expression reflective of cordiality. "No doubt Will is already serving drinks in the dining room– join him, dinner won't be long."

Sure enough, Will is, and Jack is as unsettled as he was in the presence of the Chesapeake Ripper.

The man has chosen to forgo his glasses, dressed in the simple and elegant tones of navy and black. The room... _compliments_ him, Jack could say. It is almost as if each light chooses to face him: desperate sunflowers in need of nourishment. Will cocks his head faintly, tilts the bottle toward Jack and Jack can only accept with a subdued nod.

Will pours another glass and slides it in his direction.

"It's just a Sangiovese", he comments absently, staring at the label with little interest. "I've yet to learn the differences– I think this ones fruity, but Hannibal hates it when I say that. You look like you want to ask me something, I don't suppose it's about the wine."

"I need to know."

"You know." Will puts the bottle down and skirts around the table, his glass dainty in hand. "And you're here."

"You're here, too", Jack points out with gritted teeth and then, in a lower tone, "Have you forgotten the plan or do you really just not give a _fuck_ anymore?"

Will smiles at that; a touch amused and a little more skeptical, he slides his arm around the backing of a chair.

"Forgetfulness can promote a healthy mind. Perhaps it's good to forget."

"You sound just like him."

"Maybe I do", Will is quick to defend. "Think you can handle the two of us?"

Before the ambiguity can be explored in more doubtful fishing holes or cat and mouse games, Hannibal glides into the room, plates balanced on each arm.

"Dinner", he introduces. "The large brown trout is known to feed on small terrestrial animals that fall into the water, such as the baby bird falling from overhead or even swimming mice and moles. Strong evidence suggests that they can even detect polarisation of light, helping them locate prey. I believe Will caught them the other morning."

The meat looks fleshy and horrifying and bathed in what is surely a delicious herb butter. It is undeniably fish. Jack watches the couple sit and wavers by his own chair, attempting to hide the nauseating feeling inching onto his face. He feels tricked, beguiled and effectively caught all at once; _trout_ , his brain scoffs. _Fucking trout._

At the head of the table, a psychopath takes a bite of his meal. On his left, flanking him, is the Chesapeake Ripper.

"Will you sit?"

Graham's voice carries along the length of the table softly; Jack has never heard a more threatening command. He sits. Hannibal looks absurdly pleased and doesn't even touch his meal, content to sit with his chin in his palm and a hand on the stem of his wine glass. Jack supposes discretion for rudeness is low on his list as a host, at the moment.

"You left the recorder in the car again and yet you're gutsy enough to pull a gun on us beneath the table", Will chides lowly over the scrape of his fork. "I thought there was more respect between us."

Reluctantly, Jack raises his gun from his thigh.

"I wanted to give you a chance. I can see now that I was wrong to trust you."

"You've never trusted me", the empath insists. "If you trusted me, neither of us would be here now. Please set the gun down and push it away."

Jack does, and Hannibal hums– perhaps more amused. Will excuses himself from the table to pick it up, weighing it in his hand.

"I want you to know that Bella will be safe."

Jack's thoughts come to a halt, the looming presence of Will in front of him much too alike to the aching knowledge of Miriam. He chokes on a disbelieving laugh and Will's sharp look forces silence.There's something there he's never seen.

"Bella won't die alone", Will clarifies. "Not like you."

Jack Crawford knows what arterial spray looks like, he knows how it's done, but for the first time in his life does he know how Will Graham sees it and he knows how it  _feels;_ sharp and slow, a sudden emptiness of the throat and then a surge of blood that washes the tablecloth. Hannibal's hand is calm and practiced at the back of his head, and Will's fingers go limp on the gun–

he is splattered in red. It is the last image Jack Crawford sees.

Will's hands shake with shared adrenaline, as Hannibal slides the kitchen knife down to the table; "In another life", he says, "I think my rejection would sour you." Hannibal bridges the gap between them, smearing the blood on his face gently– the faint thrum of pain is still evident in the sweat of the air.

"It would ruin me", Hannibal admits. "Such is the vigor of my infatuation with you."

"Your inconvenient compassion."

"Yes."

As a child, intimacy seemed too far of a beloved daydream than something of a memory. Will's father just wasn't affectionate and he wouldn't know his mother from any other woman on the street– he'd seen the sex in movies, lost his own virginity at 25, held hands with a girl and looked into countless eyes. He'd seen the rapists and felt their fitful nights of passion: the dewy residue they left in his brain not too dissimilar to ejaculate. It was like they'd raped his head, too.

It'd taken him to 34 to see what a finer definition of intimacy _could_ be. In long booths, maybe, where two people sat too far with an arm around the seat backing– ducked heads to speak.

Unnecessary touching, undetermined and unplanned– excusable. A touch on the cheek, a linger on the hand... he falls completely against Hannibal's chest, the thrum of his heart defeaning when he presses his ear. Hannibal accommodates easily, a guiding hand pressing the back of his head closely: intimacy, Will Graham thinks, is silent.

"Touch gives the world an emotional context", Hannibal states, as if reading the empath's mind. "It builds trust."

 _You've always touched me_ , Will doesn't say.

"Take me home", he breathes.


End file.
